Homophonic translation...or, how interpreted a Romanian poem wrongly..

posted twice ...

Today at dversepoets.com we are translating poems from a language we do not know using just the sounds and look of the words instead of meaning....called "homophonic translations".

Don't ask me how I got this...I don't know!  Romanian poem is below - knowing latin is the key I suppose, but this verse took on a life of its own..

dversepoets.com

The name of my last lover was Russian                                                                

 he lay in his bed in a simple lean-to                                                                     

 he lay in his bed wrapped in white sheets 
 peering out at fiery skies of the season             

                 
 Floating from the terrace garden blooms 

 purple and white scented perfume;
 he felt a coolness and breathed in the 
 night air as he slept peacefully                                                       

 Pollen spread over him during the night

 and he began to roam in his pajamas,

 floating above his body;  until finally

 resting near me, moved closer

 The timber of each little bell flower  

 reached my ear and I smelled orchids;

 all my senses gathered in full grandeur,

  as our dreams began cascading together    

 The name of my last love was Russian

  he lay in his bed in a simple lean-to

  he lay in his bed wrapped in white sheets
  peering out at fiery skies of the season  

 Out from the dream we awoke together,

 slowly the aura of the dream disappeared;

 we stood at the altar before us at our feet

 then spoke our matrimonial forever vows

Ne-om aminti cândva târziu

de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,
de-aceasta banca unde stam
tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.

De pe stamine de alun,
din plopii albi, se cerne jarul.
Orice-nceput se vrea fecund,
risipei se deda Florarul.

Polenul cade peste noi,
în preajma galbene troiene
alcatuieste-n aur fin.
Pe umeri cade-ne si-n gene.

Ne cade-n gura când vorbim,
si-n ochi, când nu gasim cuvântul.
Si nu stim ce pareri de rau
ne tulbura, piezis, avântul.

Ne-om aminti cândva târziu
de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,
de-aceasta banca unde stam
tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.

Visând, întrezarim prin doruri -
latente-n pulberi aurii –
paduri ce ar putea sa fie
si niciodatã nu vor fi.